Angst Week 2015
by borntoflyhigh
Summary: 'For her, death was a finer option compared to loneliness...' Prompt 02 - Blood. A series of one-shots for Angst Week 2015. Characters and genres may change with each different prompt. Image credits do not belong to me. Enjoy!
1. Children

**'Angst Week 2015'**

 **Disclaimer** **:** _I do NOT own GH._

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 **Prompt 01** **:** _Children_

 **Word Count** **:** _542_

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 _'And for the only time in his entire lifespan, he allowed himself to cry…'_

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On twenty-fifth of July, three months after their third wedding anniversary, he realized that their marriage had fallen into a pattern, a routine that started with him looking into his wife's eyes, seeing the self-loathing lurking in there and ended with the same visual.

He hated it. With a fierceness that surprised even him.

For a man who had lived his life surrounded by numbers and words and technicalities that comforted him, he found the pattern to be sickening. Long gone was the comfort behind a predictability, the assurance behind knowing that things - _life -_ could be generalized.

His life was so orderly now that he wanted to disrupt it, shake the foundations, anything to tear its monotony apart.

"I'm sorry…"

It was just the same as the other mornings, she would wake up with that empty look on her face and he would try not to show how much it bothered him.

He would turn to her, slowly. Taking the time to blend his expression into one of complete indifference.

"It's not your fault." He would stare deep into her eyes, trying to convince her of the fact. "You know that."

And she would smile. Not in that breathtaking way that had first captured his attention and spun it all around that one, striking expression.

No.

This one would be wan. A wry tip of her mouth. A resignation.

And he hated it. Hated seeing it there. Wanted to wipe it off her face. Wanted to -

But he wouldn't do any of that, of course. He would hide it all, every single emotion, every thought behind the facade he'd perfected and would turn away from her. The image of her, grim, depressed, a shell of the woman she used to be.

Sometimes he wondered how in the name of _hell,_ could she be a goddamn psychologist when she couldn't even handle herself. When she could let herself even believe the fact that she was responsible for _it._ That it had all been her fault.

He would stare at himself in the mirror. The reflection haunting him, taunting him with the knowledge that it had been _him_ who had been responsible for this mess. That he had been a lousy husband. That his nonchalance had done this. She deserved better. Better than him.

So the report would mock him. From its place on the table, open for all the world to read what had caused this mess in the first place.

A lost child.

A dead child. A being he'd known for about a minute, a being he'd barely touched, barely seen.

But that day, the sixtieth day of their silent mourning to be precise, his wife did not apologize. Did not even look up at him with the fresh grief etched over her face.

Instead, she stared up at him. A memory in her eyes. The wan smile in place.

"He looked so much like you."

He paused in his routine. Slowly raising his head to look at his wife.

"So _much_ like you. Martin."

And for the only time in his entire lifespan, Martin Davis allowed himself to cry.

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 **A/N:** _And while I don't know the difference between angst and depression, I rather took a blend of them and produced this! Why this story means so much to me is because I lost twin brothers (yeah, irony); they died after about minutes of being born in this world. And they looked like me. So, here you have a platter of angst, folks. Review!_

 **-borntoflyhigh-**


	2. Blood

**'Angst Week 2015'**

 **Disclaimer** **:** _I do NOT own GH..._

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 **Prompt 02** **:** _Blood_

 **Word Count** **:** _699_

 _'For her, death was a finer option compared to loneliness...'_

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Blood.

The spurting, crimson fluid was the only memory of that one horrible night which she could recall with stark clarity.

"Masako?"

Clean, white walls stared back at her. The colour such a contrast against the red hue that marred her pale hands. She had scrubbed them clean of all evidence, trying to wash them of all memories but nothing worked, the colour mocked her. Reminded her of every single sound she wanted to forget, every single image ingrained in her mind, the violence etched deep into her consciousness.

"Masako, can you hear me?"

She heard all of them; saw the concern in their eyes, the desperation in their voices, comprehended the fact that they wanted her to get better, that they needed her.

No. They _had_ needed her. Before she had gone and murdered an innocent _._ Before she had painted her hands in red. Before… before -

"Dammit, Masako! Talk to us!"

She did not respond. Instead, she concentrated on the walls in front of her. Walls were safe. Walls were clean. Walls were white. Not red. Never red.

"Don't let it destroy you, Masako. Do you hear me? _Please."_

Masako ignored them. Could they not see that she wanted to be left alone? Could they not see that she wanted nothing more than silence? Nobody should come near her, not after what she'd done - not after the… the _murder._

"Quiet. It's her father. He's finally giving a statement."

Her _father._

She concentrated on his face. The patrician nose, the cold grey eyes and the aristocratic jaw; a profile that never failed to intimidate and found herself wanting to hear him say something in her defense. Wanting to hear him say that it hadn't been her fault, that it had been a séance gone horribly wrong. A paranormal phenomena.

Anything. Anything that hinted of him caring for her.

But when he spoke, she saw the muscles in his jaw ticking, the annoyance etched onto his face.

And for one clear moment, she knew that the blood that tied them together had been nothing but a tenuous thread, waiting to be broken.

"It is indeed true that Hara Masako committed a murder, regardless of the witnesses stating that she did it under the influence of a spirit."

Someone in the room gasped. A low, horrified sound.

She just stared ahead. Walls. White. Stark. White. Red. White. Red.

Red. _Red._

 _Murderer._

"Masako has always been a… _disturbed_ individual. I should have seen the signs of a mental disorder in her person when she claimed to see spirits but, alas…some things are discovered late in life. I - I shall ensure that she receives the best treatment. Let us hope for her complete recovery. Thank you. No further comments."

"The man's insane!" Mai claimed, physically lurching towards the television screen as if to confront her father. "He can't say that! Masako's not _mad!"_

But Mai did not see it. Nobody did. She _was_ mad. Mad and tired of seeing things she did not want to. Tired of a _gift_ that had done nothing but bring her torture, toying with her mind until she couldn't endure the grief, until the pain threatened to consume.

Nobody would understand. Nobody would know that the screaming of the man rang in her head when she laid it on a pillow at night. Nobody would know that she remembered his silent pleas to stop.

She remembered the colour of his blood, the stickiness of it on her hands, the stench of it in her nose.

That night, she stared at the ceiling long and hard. Tried to pull apart the seams of an incomplete memory.

Nothing worked.

So she stared at the sedatives on her bedside and contemplated all the ways that could lead her to oblivion.

And the last thing she recalled of that hazy night - with the dark beneath her eyelids and the agony in her mind - was the blood, oozing out of the wounds she had inflicted and the blood that no longer held any meaning to her family. Her father. She was a murderer. An insane woman.

A lonely woman.

And death was a finer option compared to _that._

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 **A/N** **:** _So yeah... not one of my finer pieces of work but I was mildly depressed and contemplating the concept of death (I have an essay to write, you see) and this popped into my brain. Initially I was going to make it from Yasu's POV but something in me called for Masako. And here it is. Review!_

 _Much love,_

 **-borntoflyhigh-**


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